


THE CHAINED CITY

by Mikkeneko



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Noir, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Prostitution, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Minor Character Death, Smoking, technically the same universe but much later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-26 04:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14993129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikkeneko/pseuds/Mikkeneko
Summary: A murder in Kirkwall isn't news -- it's just daily life. But it's not every day that the murder victim is the city's police-commissioner -- and the murder suspect is the Governor of Kirkwall.Garrett Hawke, Private Investigator, has a suspicion that not all is as it seems. But while he's investigating the murder he has another mystery on his hands: the enigmatic beauty Anders...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2018 Hawke/Anders Reverse Bang, a challenge I had never tried before! I was paired up with the lovely [drawsshits](https://twitter.com/drawsshits) to do a Noir AU -- which I've also never tried before, so new things all around! Hope you enjoy.

 

[ ](http://s1380.photobucket.com/user/mikkeneko/media/Art%20by%20drawsshits/1noirhanders_zpsxodg6zsl.png.html)

\---

 

**Wednesday, 7:05 AM. Office of Garrett Hawke, P.I.**

 

On the west wall of Hawke's room there was a window. That was rare in this town, but he was lucky. His place was a good place, up-scale, the sort that most regular stiffs of Kirkwall would work their whole lives away for the chance to buy and own. Through the window you saw the back end of another stone wall.

 That was Kirkwall for you. 

"I have to admit," Hawke said as he poured out two fingers -- one for him, one for his guest -- "I'm not really sure what there is for me to do here. Perrin's hired muscle did Guylian in out in broad daylight in front of fifty witnesses. There's no mystery." 

There was a mystery, but it wasn't to do with the murder. It was the man across the desk from him, and Hawke had been trying to work it out in his head since he'd first walked in. 

He was a long man, a tall man. Under the sloping roof of the outside wall he had to bend a little to avoid brushing against the ceiling beams. He had a long forehead that rose up into red-blond hair that was kept long for a man, long nose, a long chin, long legs, long fingers. Skinny for his height -- not a lot of muscle on that chest or those long arms -- but he moved with a secure grace that went a long way. 

He was blond, which you didn't see much in this city. Ferelden by the accent, but he'd introduced himself as Anders. A short name for a long man, a simple name for a whole mess of trouble. 

"Tell me, Mr. Hawke," Anders said. His voice drifted on the air like smoke, slid into Hawke's ears like honey, hit the brain like whiskey. "Do you always believe what you're told?" 

Hawke scowled down at his desk, a few newspaper clippings peeking out between other debris. POLICE COMMISSIONER ASSASSINATED, GOVERNOR ARRESTED, the headline blared. "So, what?" he said aloud. "Are you trying to tell me you think Threnhold is innocent?" 

Anders scoffed. "No one in this town is innocent, Mr. Hawke. I don't mistake that." Anders leaned in, his eyes intent, dark dusty gold in the low light. "But he's not a killer." 

That sounded definite, confident. Hawke eyed him warily. "You know him well?" 

"As well as anyone can." Anders shrugged one shoulder. "Mr. Threnhold is one of my... confidential clients." 

It clicked into place suddenly where he'd seen that profile once before -- half-lit in shadow in the corner of a picture of the Governor at last year's Satinalia gala. The newspapers hadn't given his name, only _and unnamed guest_  when mentioned alongside Threnhold, but everybody knew _what_  he was even if they didn't know _who._ "Oh. You're the governor's side-piece?" 

Anders withdrew slightly, his voice and manner going cool. "I provide certain services to my clients," he said. "Company. Conversation. When called for... a certain amount of discretion." 

"Makes sense," Hawke said. Regretted his cruel words almost as soon as he'd said them. In a town like Kirkwall, paid escort was as honest a trade as anyone else had.

 "Perrin Threnhold has his secrets, his own dirty laundry stashed away," Anders said. "But he's no killer. He doesn't have it in him."

 "Threnhold and Guylian clashed before," Hawke said slowly. Anders seemed sure, but Hawke wasn't convinced. Young and naive girlfriends always wanted to believe the best of the men in their lives; older and more jaded wives and mistresses too often didn't want to hear things that they couldn't live with. Was an escort really any different? Or was Anders just trying to protect his meal-ticket? "Threnhold's got no love for the Templars. Tried to revoke their charter last Harvestmere."

 "And they've been allies on many matters more," Anders insisted. "They both sought a future for the people of Kirkwall that would be free of corporate tyranny. There are other... interests in this city who might have preferred otherwise. Interests that would be well-served by seeing Threnhold taken out of commission."

 Hawke blinked. He wasn't so drunk that he couldn't follow Anders' logic. "You're saying you think Threnhold was framed?" He sat up straight. "By whom?"

 "By _whom?_ " Anders' lips quirked upwards. "I'm sure a working stiff like me is in no position to make accusations." He leaned over Hawke's desk, pressing his spread hand against one of the newspaper clippings and sliding it closer to Hawke. "Look closer, Mr. Hawke. That's all I'm asking."

 Hawke considered it.

 "All right," Hawke said, and knocked back his shot. What the hell. "I'll do it."

 "Glad to hear it," Anders said. His mouth stayed carefully disciplined but his eyes smiled, little creases at the corners that made them dance. "Now to the matter of payment. I understand you require a substantial down payment --"

 His hands drifted towards his suit jacket, but Hawke cut him off. "Not necessary."

 Anders hesitated, looking a bit wary. "You'll invoice me at the end?" he said, a note of doubt creeping into his voice.

 "I don't need payment," Hawke said, his voice coming out gruff. "Not if what you're saying is true. If you're sending me on a wild goose chase, well then that might be another matter."

 Anders sat back, lifting one finger to press against his lips. "Strange," he murmured. "That's not what I heard."

 Hawke's head snapped up. "What did you hear?" he demanded.

 That one-shoulder shrug. "That Garrett Hawke does the best work around," he said, "but he's sure to charge you for every penny's worth. Like a mabari on the scent when it comes to money, they say."

 Hawke grimaced. Anders' sources weren't wrong exactly, but they were... out of date. "Not any more," he said flatly.

 When he'd first come to Kirkwall, it was true he'd scrounged and saved every scrap. He'd dug in the gutters for coin, took any odd job he could find, hoarded his money as greedily as a dragon building a nest. But not for himself. It was never for himself.

 But that was then. Now... now... he had the old Amell townhouse, the last part of the Amell estate that hadn't been sold off to pay the debts. He slept in the room upstairs, kept the office downstairs open for business. It was enough to provide him with all he needed -- more than he needed -- more than he could use, now. And it came with the view, the view of the blank stone wall.

 Now his view through the window was obscured when a body folded down in front of him. Hawke blinked free of his fog and looked up, up a long chest peeking out of crisp folded linen lapels framed by black suspenders. The clothes were clean, stiff with starch, but there were creases in places that suggested he didn't wear this outfit often. What did he usually wear? Hawke dragged his eyes upwards. The divot of a graceful collarbone, a long column of throat, and... those piercing gold eyes caught him at the top of it.

 Long fingers caught at his hand, taking the tumbler from his grip and setting it aside. Anders leaned back casually over the desk, the side of his thigh nudging against Hawke's. He looked... intent. Predatory. "I wouldn't ask you to do something this dangerous out of the goodness of your heart," Anders purred, and all at once Hawke suddenly saw how a skinny man like this could make it as an escort to the biggest men in the city. "If you're not interested in money, perhaps we could arrange a trade of services."

 It was a hard choice, harder than he wanted it to be. But just like the whiskey he knew he'd regret it in the morning -- and unlike the whiskey, this one he could still say no to. "Sorry," he said, and moved his chair back from the desk until the contact was broken. "I don't mix business and pleasure. Look me up again after the case is done, if you're still interested then."

 Small chance there was of that. In Hawke's experience, clients didn't usually want anything to do with him once the case had broken. Disappointed or vindicated, furious or vengeful or full of despair, they vanished into the shadows of Kirkwall just like all the rest.

 Anders' lips pursed, his eyes narrowed. He didn't look disappointed, and Hawke wasn't sure what to make of that. Had he been hoping Hawke would take him up on his offer? That he wouldn't? "I guess I'll leave you to your business, then," Anders said and the purr was still there, but quieter now. Subliminal, like the rumbling of the tracks in the quiet of the night.

 He went to leave, picking his coat off the back of the chair and throwing it over his shoulder. Took the hat off the hook and fixed it back over his head, hiding that striking blond hair that set him apart. Paused by the door, sending one narrow considering glance back Hawke's way. "You know..." he said. "You're not what I was expecting, Mr. Hawke."

 

He was gone before Hawke could ask him what he meant by that. Impressed or disappointed, Hawke didn't think he wanted to know.

 

* * *

 

 

**Wednesday, 5:37 PM. Threnhold Manor**

 

Kirkwall. They called it the Chained City, and if that wasn't the worst possible advertisement to tourists in the Free Marches it wasn't for lack of trying.

 Kirkwall wasn't a city of hopes. That was something Hawke had always liked about it. It didn't lure you in with promises of wealth or fame like Orzammar, or glitter and dazzle like Val Royeaux. Nobody came to Kirkwall on purpose. It was a place you ended up because you'd been kidnapped or shipwrecked or press-ganged -- or because you'd run out of money on your way to somewhere else. Kirkwall didn't have the silver screen, or the gold deposits, or the holy cradle of humanity. Kirkwall had work. The most Kirkwall ever promised was that it was someplace you could live.

 Even that promise wasn't kept more often than not.

 Too many of Hawke's investigations had ended in trouble, but they didn't start out that way. Being a PI wasn't all shootouts with thugs in dark alleys before dawn. In fact, it wasn't supposed to come to that at all. Most of the business of private investigating was walking, talking to people, and looking at paperwork.

 First things first. Hawke went to Threnhold's manor. Anders had seemed sure that Threnhold would have no motive to murder the Knight-Commander, but Anders didn't know everything that went on in his boss' life, now did he? Threnhold might have been lying to him. Then again, Anders might have been lying too.

 The seat of government was in the Viscount's Keep, but the city hadn't had a viscount for hundreds of years. Perrin Threnhold had a house, a nice little place in Hightown that just barely missed the mark of being called a 'mansion' mostly by virtue of not being hundreds of years old. Threnhold was new money and while the nobles of Hightown had accepted him as governor, they'd never quite accepted him as one of them.

 He could relate to that.

 There were guards posted around the manor. Not surprising. They wore the uniforms and insignia of the KCPD, and from the looks of things had been chosen for their size and intimidating scowls more than their brains. Hawke briefly contemplated trying to argue or sweet-talk his way past them to access the building, but dismissed the idea. The cops had been jumpy, on-edge and in a temper since one of their own had been killed. Besides, Kirkwall PD weren't hard to get around: they never looked up.

 An hour of careful climbing and window-jimmying later, Hawke was in. They hadn't thought to post any guards inside the house, only outside it. He prowled from one room to the next on light feet until he found the office -- spacious and well-appointed with mahogany furniture, walls adorned with stuffed wyvern heads and mounted halla horns. Desk, cabinets. Documents.

 A review of the documents in the unlocked cabinets turned up nothing interesting, but he hadn't expected it to. A more careful inspection of his desk revealed a couple of locked and hidden compartments, which turned up more papers and a bottle of excellent and expensive brandy. Hawke helped himself to it, settling into the Governor's comfortable chair while he reviewed the papers.

 Perrin Threnhold had been no saint, that was for sure. He had a taste for billiards, other men's wives, and contraband tobacco smuggled from Seheron. Threnhold had a habit of booking "paid appearances" at Hightown parties -- sometimes tens of thousands of sovereigns in order to show up for an hour and listen amiably to people's pitches. But despite the petty grifting -- or perhaps because of it -- he'd mostly stayed on top of his finances. No secret debts, no high-interest loans or connections with the city's underground economy. Quite a few angry husbands but no indication anywhere in the correspondence of a secret grudge against Guylian. There was a journal, but it didn't have anything more damning than a bunch of terrible poetry.

 Puzzlement grew as he tossed the office for more hidden information, searching the walls and cabinets for anything he might have missed. He didn't expect to find an execution order for the Knight-Commander just lying out on the desk, but actions on that scale left trails. Signs. No movement in his accounts, no sudden cashing out of large amounts of money, no tickets or reservations indicating a sudden plan to travel to the countryside... nothing unusual in his routine at all.

 In the detective business you couldn't expect every lead to pan out. But sometimes what you didn't find was almost as informative as what you did find. It seemed like Anders might have been right. Hawke finished off the brandy and left the same way he had come in.

 

* * *

 

 

The problem wasn't a lack of witnesses. Ten o'clock on a Monday morning on the west edge of the lowtown bazaar, Police Commissioner Richard Guylian had been coming down the courthouse stairs when a contingent of six men -- all wearing the sashes of the Crimson Weaver Bloodragers -- had rushed out of the crowd and opened fire up the stairs. Guylian had been killed instantly, as were two other policemen and a courthouse clerk who had been present.

 Everyone had seen it. Hawke didn't doubt what they had seen. What he really wanted to know was what _hadn't_ been seen -- the secrets lurking in the hearts of men. He didn't want to talk to the witnesses; he wanted to talk to the killers.

 Which he couldn't do, because they were all dead.

 The police response to the shooting was swift and bloody. Before the shooters had gotten more than a block away from the courthouse the police cars were there, roaring up and rapidly assembling into a barricade. The shooters took refuge in a corner shop, exchanging fire with the police behind their shields and yelling threats and demands in exchange for their hostages. The police chief in charge was had been Deputy Commissioner Meredith Stannard, who had a reputation for hardness unusual even among the Kirkwall P.D. and blood in her eye for the death of one of her own. When the criminals had threatened to kill the shop-owner unless they were given safe passage out of the city, Stannard had answered only that the law did not negotiate.

 The standoff had ended in a shootout with the hostages dead, five of the killers dog meat and one mortally wounded. In the back of the police car on the way to the hospital the last survivor had confessed to being hired by Governor Perrin Threnhold right before he bit the dust himself. There it was, all written down in black and blue.

 Hawke didn't need witnesses.

 He needed truth.

 

* * *

 

**Thursday, 8:03 AM. Red Iron Headquarters**

 

Hawke had one thing the KCPD didn't have -- connections. He hadn't always been a detective, after all. There'd been a time shortly after coming to Kirkwall when he and his brother Carver had worked with a group of for-hire "security experts" that went by the Red Iron.

 He found Meeran in his office, the little foreman's office positioned above the warehouse the Red Iron worked out of. They kept their supplies here -- weapons, body armor, tear gas, portable barricades -- and the lot was a good space for training. A group of hard-bodied men were drilling out on the concrete when Hawke arrived. It would have been hard for so much as a flea to make their way past that group and up the catwalks without being noticed -- but fortunately Hawke remembered where all the back exits were.

 Meeran looked up when Hawke closed the door behind him, grabbing for something under his desk. He relaxed and pulled his hand back when Hawke turned around and showed his face. "Well well, if it isn't Little Hawke," he said with a sneer. "What are you doing here? I thought you'd gone all respectable on us."

 "I'm on the trail of a killer, Meeran," Hawke replied. "I hoped you could point me in the right direction."

 Meeran frowned. "Whatever you're into, I don't want no part of it," he said. "I don't deal in murder."

 "No you don't," Hawke said. "But you know somebody who does. Where is Jaravis holing up these days? I've got a few questions for him."

 "Jaravis Tintop?" Meeran looked wary. "Why would I know? I don't work with him anymore."

 "Sure," Hawke drawled. Everybody knew that the Red Iron didn't take killing contracts -- just as everyone knew that if you gave the information to Meeran, somehow it would get done anyway. "You don't work _with_ him, you just send work his way. Well send me his way, Meeran, and I'll be out of your hair."

 "And why should I help you?" Meeran sneered.

 "Well, I was hoping that you'd be moved by charity or nostalgia at the memory of our good times together," Hawke said. He strolled over to the clear glass windows of the office overlooking the warehouse and gazed down at the crates and crates of supplies piled against the walls. "But most of all I was hoping you'd realize that I can make your life a living hell. You don't want me asking too many questions about your under-the-table work with Athenril, do you? Or taking too close a look at those 'logistic' trucks you move into the city? Then the fastest way to get rid of me is to send me on to someone else."

 Meeran glowered at him. "You think you can threaten me, Garrett? Your brother was the tough one, he always was. Do you think that just because he got himself killed on a wild goose chase means that you --"

 Hawke crossed the office in an instant, one hand slamming against Meeran's chair to send it skidding back from the desk. His other hand grabbed Meeran's wrist and twisting, forcing him to drop the pistol he'd been reaching for under the desk. Two bodies and the chair hit the wall with a thump that shook the office, and at a distance of less than six inches Hawke was in a position to see the look of dawning panic on Meeran's face.

 "Don't you _talk_  about my brother," Hawke growled, his eyes drilling into Meeran's.

 The older man broke the gaze first, looking down and away. "...Fine. Whatever," he said. He jerked his arm against Hawke's grasp and Hawke let him go, standing back. Meeran glowered at him as he straightened his chair. "Jaravis was renting a room on Brekker Street last time I saw him. Two-fifty. He might have moved on by now -- it ain't my problem."

 Hawke nodded. "Nice catching up with you, Meeran," he said in a false-affable voice. "Hope we won't see each other again soon."

 He was heading for the door when a voice called out behind him. "Hawke -- I was sorry as hell to hear about Carver," Meeran said and damn if he didn't sound sincere. "He was a good worker."

 "He was," Hawke said, and walked out the door.

 

* * *

 

**Thursday, 8:35 AM. Brekker Street Apartments**

 

Brekker Street was only a few blocks away from the Red Iron's warehouse; Hawke decided to walk it instead of taking a taxi. It gave him time to clear his head and to shake off the shades of the past that Meeran had conjured.

 It was strange to look back at his time in the Red Iron and think of it as the good times. They'd come to Kirkwall on the back of a ragged train of war refugees desperately seeking a place to get under cover where the bombs weren't falling. Kirkwall didn't much like foreigners at the best of times and the sudden influx of refugees hadn't improved their attitude any. It took all their money in fees and bribes just to get through the gates, and the four of them found themselves in the streets of Lowtown with no money, no place to stay and no prospects.

 They'd made it work. He and Carver had run odd jobs, made connections among the other refugees, fought off a few predators. They'd found a place in Lowtown where Mother and Bethany could stay while the two brothers worked. There'd been no work for Bethany; there were few jobs in Kirkwall that allowed mages and fewer that also allowed women unless she wanted to join the other street girls. Leandra had hoped to reconnect with the rest of the Amell family, but her hopes had been crushed; the Amell estate had fallen into vacancy years ago and been reclaimed by the city, and none of the friends of the old Amell legacy had room in their black books for a Ferelden widow.

 In desperation he and Carver had signed a year's contract with the Red Iron. The work had always been hard, often dangerous, but they'd done it together. They'd worked off their time and then they'd kept working, Carver with the Red Iron and Hawke taking on independent contracts. He'd had a knack for solving problems, for finding answers, and his reputation as an investigator had spread throughout Kirkwall.

 At last, at last they'd saved up five thousand sovereigns -- enough to invest in the Val Repartha expedition. It had been the talk of the city when it came to light: a Qunari mortar round in the last strafing had blown the top off a hill, exposing an ancient buried settlement to light. A _dwarven_  settlement going by the architecture -- but what dwarves had ever built so close to the surface?

 It caught the popular imagination, set the people on fire with fantasies of buried treasure, inflamed the academic world with thoughts of the anthropological findings. A dozen expeditions to Val Repartha were planned but only one got off the ground: a search and excavation party led by the dwarven Merchant's Guild, buy-in only five thousand sovereigns.

 The profits were supposed to be fantastic, enough to restore the old Amell fortune and buy back their place in Hightown. Mother could live in luxury, Bethany would never have to worry about working again, they'd have gravy at every meal and a motorcar in the garage. If the expedition succeeded.

 The argument had lasted three days but at the end of it they'd agreed: Carver would go with the expedition, to help it along its way and see that nothing was held back from the findings, and  Garrett would stay in Kirkwall to take care of Mother and Bethany.

 The expedition set off. Ventured into the shattered war zone that had been the Qunari front, reached the ruins and begun to dig. The findings were incredible. The treasure was all they could have hoped for. Historians were going gaga over the photos from the digsite. They stayed for ten days until the threat of Qunari militants attacking the dig site became too great, then packed up their tents and shovels, and retreated to their ship.

 And then there had come the telegram...

 A storm had blown the ship off course. It didn't push them far, but the waters they'd drifted into edged onto the marine territory off Seheron. The ship struck a submerged mine that blew out half the hull. The treasure sank to the bottom of the sea, along with most of the passengers -- only a few survivors managed to swim to safety to the nearest vessel. Carver hadn't been one of them.

 He should have been the one to go. It hurt to think about it, to remember that awful morning; standing in the doorway of their terrible Lowtown tenement and see the words so starkly printed on the telegram. Of having to turn back inside and tell the girls that Carver was dead and all their money was gone.

 Hawke came out of his memories with a sudden start. He'd been walking without seeing but his feet knew these streets; he'd reached the entrance to the Brekker street tenement. The front door was propped open with a brick, so Hawke went inside; mounted the stairs for the second floor and walked down the hallway counting doors on either side until he reached 250.

 The bolt was slid back and the door unlocked. Hawke stared at the inch-wide gap in the door, then slowly eased his hand down to loosen his gun in its holster.

 Gun in hand Hawke stepped noiselessly through the door. A quick sweep of the apartment showed no movement; he let the barrel of the gun drop, although he didn't put it away. "Jaravis?" he ventured, his voice echoing through the hallway. "Jaravis Tintop? Anyone here?"

 Jaravis was in his office, but he wouldn't be answering any questions. Someone had made sure of that. He was slumped over his desk, one hand outstretched, blood running down from the gaping wound in his head and masking his features.

 Hawke moved slowly around the desk, taking in the scene, looking for anything useful. He hadn't been shot. A gunshot probably would have been heard. His wounds had been made by something both heavy and sharp. An axe? A meat cleaver? His desk had been ransacked, all the papers missing.

 He stooped to examine the body. Rigor mortis had come and gone. The blood had all pooled on the underside of his body, but serious bloat hadn't yet set in. More than two days then, less than three. From the angle of the wounds Jaravis had been sitting behind his desk and the attacker had been standing in front of it. It had to have been someone he'd expected, since the door hadn't been forced; he'd let his murderer in, they'd both gone to his office and faced each other over his desk before he'd been killed.

 Jaravis Tintop, merchant of murder, had been killed by one of his own clients -- and he'd been dead since Monday night. It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out just what job he'd taken on.

 

* * *

 

 

**Thursday, 9:47 PM. Smetty's Fish and Chips Stand**

 

Sudden death seemed to be catching.

Tintop wasn't the only one who had dropped dead over the past week. Half of Hawke's contacts in the mercenary world had either turned up dead or not turned up at all. Hiding? Dead somewhere in an alley? Hard to know for sure, but either way the effect on Hawke was the same: he had no one to question and no leads to follow. Someone was covering up their trail, and leaving a parade of dead bodies in their wake.

 Step back. Look at the big picture.

 Sometimes the lack of evidence was evidence in itself. If _somebody_  was going to all this trouble to bury a trail, then that meant there was still a trail to follow. The killings made a shape even if the shape was of negative space.

 Somewhere in there was a pattern. The killer had to be someone that all the victims knew, or at least had some form of contact with. If he could identify all of the deaths -- find out who they worked for and when -- then the common point of all of them would be the one he wanted.

 But he needed more data. He spent the next night and day working, walking, talking, and gathering information. Some of it he could get from the newspapers, some he could get from the libraries. But when it came to murders in Kirkwall, the best source of information came from the police themselves.

 Fortunately Hawke had connections there, too.

 He sat at the bar at Smetty's nursing a plate of chips and a watery beer when a tall figure slid onto the stool next to him. Hawke glanced sideways and saw a woman, dark blue coat straining over broad shoulders and a head of copper-bright hair.

 "Do you have what I asked for?" Hawke said, pitching his voice under the jazzy music coming from the cafe.

 The woman nodded, lips a thin white line across her face, as she produced a wad of papers from under her greatcoat. Hawke made it disappear into his own trench. "Thanks," he said. "I really appreciate you coming through for me on this, Aveline."

 "This had better not come back to bite me," Aveline hissed. "The entire department is a bloodbath right now. The captain's come down like a ton of bricks twice already over minor infractions. If he found out I was copying case files and sharing them with civilians --"

 "You're a good officer, nobody will suspect you," Hawke said. "Besides, what's the harm?"

 "Easy for you to say -- _you_  don't have a career on the line," Aveline muttered. "Hard enough for a Ferelden to get a job in the Kirkwall PD in the first place, let alone get a good rank out of it. You don't know how easy it would be to lose everything if there's so much as a slip."

 "This is important," Hawke insisted. "I wouldn't have asked if it weren't. Whatever happens, it will be worth it."

 "It had better be," Aveline said, and shoved back from the bar again to disappear into the fog.

 

* * *

 

 

 **Friday, 4:05 AM.** **Office of Garrett Hawke, P.I.**

 

Back in his office Hawke sorted through the files Aveline had given him, combining them with the ones his own research had turned up. In the end he had -- roughly -- the list of every suspicious death and missing persons report that had occurred in Kirkwall in the last week.

 From there he was able to winnow it down somewhat. Deaths that had easily explainable causes -- a domestic dispute, a jealous lover, a bar fight that had gotten out of control -- he could safely discard. Same with the ones who were too old and senile -- or too young -- to have gotten involved with bloody politics.  And he could toss out the missing-persons reports where they'd turned up later unharmed.

 That left a pile of about two dozen deaths, another dozen disappearances. More grind work; he went through and looked up each one, listed their jobs and where they lived and who they associated with. Not all of these cases were the same murderer, some would be duds. But Hawke had a feeling that somewhere in here he'd find the shape of the murderer.

 A lot of his files were regulars in the underworld, Hawke noted as he sorted them out. Most of them had been shot, killed in drive-bys or ambushed in a lonely street. The missing ones might yet turn up in the river. But Jaravis and one other person, Ignacio Strand, had been murdered in the same way -- by some sharp, heavy unknown weapon. There had been no fingerprints -- Hawke had checked Jaravis' office thoroughly before he left. Whoever had killed him had known exactly what to look for and cleaned up their traces before they moved on.

 Hawke had one wall of his office cleared with a large cork-board nailed up. He pinned his files up in a broad circle then drew strings between them, looking for connections. It wasn't the most dignified thing to do, but when you had so many names in your head to sort out it helped keep track of them all. He drew strings between the victims that had known each other, and pinned up additional names of people they did know. Drew connections between places they'd been, people they'd talked to, jobs they'd held.

 Not all of the murder victims had been members of the underworld. A number of them had been policemen, or involved with the KCPD. Guylian himself, obviously. Guylian's secretary had also been killed, shot outside his home. A patrolwoman from the north quarter had turned up dead, broken neck at the bottom of a staircase. Another was a porter who served at the 14th precinct... And another secretary from the 14th.

 Hawke frowned at his board, the shape it was taking. Could the killer have been someone from the 14th precinct? Why would Guylian's own people want to kill him? Unless the real target had been taking out Threnhold, and Guylian was just in the way... No. It wouldn't have been that hard to take out Threnhold if that was all they wanted. So why?

 He was thinking too far ahead. Before he knew why, he had to know who.

 There were twenty-five officers stationed at the 14th precinct, not counting the civilians who kept it running. That was a lot of staff for one station. Why? Ah, because the 14th handled a lot of secondary administrative duties that overflowed from headquarters. Guylian had spent most of his time at the KCPD HQ, but the deputy commissioner Meredith Stannard was stationed at the 14th.

 He stopped on that name.

 The second secretary that was killed had been Stannard's.  

 Something about this murder case had been itching at him from the beginning. Something about it seemed so damned familiar. He went back into his own archives, digging through newspaper headlines from last year, two years, three years -- there it was. He pulled out the paper and smoothed it on his desk.

 Seamus Dumar, a popular junior councilman, had been murdered in broad daylight by a gang of thugs. Shot leaving a restaurant. The police had cornered the murderers in a dead-end alley nearby and all of the thugs had been killed in the ensuing shootout. A week later the Kirkwall PD had arrested the Arishok -- the don of the qunari, patriarch of Little Par Vollen -- on suspicion of orchestrating the murder. The Arishok had been found guilty and executed before the month was out.

 The same way. It had played out the _exact_  same way. Hawke checked the name of the Kirkwall detective who'd headed the investigation. The name -- Wentworth Knell -- didn't mean much to him. But he checked the police sergeant who had been in command of the squad that murdered the killers before they could be taken into custody.

 Meredith Stannard.

 Had the Arishok been a frame job, too? Had Meredith been in charge even then, or had she learned from her mentor a little too well? Wentworth Knell had died in the line of duty six months later, hit by a stray bullet during an arrest. No one had been able to identify where the bullet came from, though the perp had gotten the chair for it. Meredith had been promoted in his place, and moved up the ranks since then.

 The shape was taking place around him, a horrible suspicion. But he still didn't _know._  Hawke walked back over to his board and reached out to pluck off one of the Missing Persons cases. It was a grainy black-and-white of what looked like a young elven woman. Her name was Orana Surrey and she was a tailor who did alterations and dry-cleaning. Right now there were no links between her and anyone else on the board.

 But her shop was on the road between the 14th Precinct and Meredith Stannard's house. And she'd been missing since the day after Jaravis' murder.

 Hawke went to get his coat and hat, leaving the board with its crazy-quilt of papers and pins and threads behind him. He had a little more walking to do.

 

* * *

 

 

**Friday, 6:09 PM. Foundry Road Mortuary**

 

Orana Surrey's shop had been modest, cramped and cozy and with only the cheapest of locks. Why would anyone break into a tailor's shop, after all? There was nothing there worth stealing. A little room in the back with a bed and curtain, a flimsy dresser and a hand-sized mirror propped on a stand hadn't been disturbed in days.

 Multiple warning notices on the door telegraphed that the shop was behind on its payments and would be repossessed soon. But Hawke was able to get into the shop, go through the receipts and get out. Meredith Stannard was indeed a regular customer here. She'd last been in the shop on Monday night, late -- past closing time, but Orana must have kept the shop open especially for such a loyal customer.

 According to the neighbors Orana had last been seen on Tuesday morning, walking to the market to buy supplies. She'd never made it to the market. Hawke scoured the roads and routes between them to no avail and then turned to the next step of the search: the city morgues.

 A lot of the bodies that ended up in the Kirkwall city morgues came in without identification. It was the nature of the job. In the first two morgues that Hawke visited his description -- elvhen female, aged eighteen to twenty-five, blonde hair -- had met with headshakes. But the third one, Foundry Road Mortuary, he found a hit.

 "An elvhen woman, you say? Blonde?" the old morgue-keeper questioned. She was an ancient old woman, one who looked halfway into a coffin herself, but she gave Hawke a pitying glance over the top of her glasses. "Yes, I believe we may have one such unfortunate young lady here. I'll have her brought out. Do you wish to see her?"

 He really didn't. "Yes," he said. He had to know if it was her, if it was Orana Surrey. If she'd seen Meredith Stannard late at night on the night of Jaravis' murder, and been murdered herself shortly after... then maybe she'd seen something she shouldn't have.

 But this anonymous body might not be hers. She could be missing for some other reason, gone back to visit family in another city. He had to see her. Had to _know._

 Walking down the hallway of the morgue was harder than he'd thought it would be. The memories -- the memories were too close. It hadn't been this morgue, but they all looked the same. It hadn't been this mortician -- but they all sounded the same. As he passed one door after another, glimpsing through each one ghostly white drapes on cold tables, he could almost see the words of the letter unscrolling in front of his eyes.

  _Dear Garrett -- I'm so sorry. I don't want to hurt you or Mother, but I can't see another way..._

 Down a flight of stairs, through another hallway. So damn cold. He wanted a drink, he needed a drink. He hadn't had one in days; he tried not to drink when he was working. But that just meant that the voices came back.

  _...I'm so far away from the sunlight here. I can't see anything but walls, and the walls are closing in on me here. This is the only way..._

 The walls threatened to close on him here, but he gripped his photo in a sweating hand, and kept walking.

 "Ah, here we are." The mortician's assistant stopped in front of one bank of little doorways, counting them off, then gripped a lever and pulled. A metallic creak of protest and the slab slid outwards. A white sheet enshrouded a body -- a small body. It barely took up half the slab.

  _...I can't stand to be a burden on you anymore. I'll never be able to get a job or pay my way, or ever be useful to anyone...._

 With a careful, precise touch the sheet was folded back. "Is this the young woman you were looking for, then?" the assistant asked, not unkindly. "We'd be glad to put a name to her..."

 Hawke made himself look.

  _...it'll be better without me, you'll see. Don't be sad -- I've gone to be with Carver..._

 It was clearly an elf. Blonde. Bethany had been taller, her hair darker, her figure fuller. But after a few days in the river before being dredged up and hauled away and laid out on a slab, they all tended to look the same.

  _....your loving sister, Bethany..._

 "Yes," Hawke choked out, seized with shivers from head to toe. "It's her."

 

* * *

 

 

~tbc...


	2. Chapter 2

 

**Friday, 11:44 PM. The Siren's Fury Canteen**

 There'd been no whiskey left at home. Hawke had stumbled his way to Isabela's place, collapsed at the bar, and croaked out for a double.

 Isabela herself came out and poured for him, handling the glass and bottle with a deft touch that he normally admired. Not tonight. Tonight it was all he could do to close his hand around the glass and get it to his lips. If he could do that, he knew, the shakes would stop. The voice would stop.

 She watched him sympathetically. "Rough night?" she asked.

 Hawke polished off the drink, shook his head at the fierce burn, and slapped it back on the counter. When his eyes stopped watering he pushed the glass back across the bar to her and held up two fingers; she pursed her lips but poured another without comment.

 What was the point in trying to find truth, to protect innocence, to _any_  of it? Innocence got shattered, hope smothered and truth blackened. People lied and cheated and tricked and betrayed and got away with it, and why should they ever stop? There were no lasting consequences. Why should anyone ever try to do the right thing? Why even bother?

 "Hawke?"

 He started out of his maudlin reverie, and found his glass empty again. He held it up. "Another and make it a double," he croaked out.

 Isabela's eyes narrowed and she reached under her bar and came out with another bottle. Hawke's temper flared; with a growl he reached out to grab her wrist. "Don't you --" he started.

 Before he got any further Isabela reversed his grip, yanking his arm forward so that he slammed chest-first against the bar. A wicked little knife appeared out of nowhere, just gently prickling the edge of his ear. "Now Hawke, you know I don't allow grabbing," Isabela said warningly.

 "Sorry," he mumbled, and she let him go. He straightened up slowly, eyeing her warily over the bar. He must be drunker than he thought to try to lay hands on Isabela; she didn't tolerate that sort of thing. But still -- "I know the bottle you keep under the bar is watered all to shit. You trying to cheat an old friend, Bela?"

 Her lips compressed, golden eyes narrowed with anger. "I wasn't going to charge you for that, idiot," she snapped. "It's _because_  you're my friend that I'm telling you that you've had _enough_. I don't run this bar so that good people people can drink themselves to death while I watch."

 He sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. Isabela's face softened in sympathy. "Garrett, I know you miss them," she said, putting a hand on his arm. "Maker knows I do. But you've got to get out of this funk. Find something to do that will take your mind off it."

 "Funny how it always seems to just get my mind back on it," Hawke muttered, but he let her pour the last drink out of the lightened bottle. Isabela gave him another smile, the sort of smile that men had fought duels with broken bottles for, and moved off.

 The crowd in the Siren's Fury was light for this time of day, but it wasn't empty. Behind him three men around a table were arguing in the thick burr that so many of the city's working class employed. "We've just got to stick it out," he was saying. "All for one, and one for all. These fat cats only listen to their precious profits. When their wallets scream loud enough, they'll give in."

 "Easy for you to say. I've got hungry kids at home!" the second man said sharply. Hawke subtly angled himself so he could watch them in the mirror behind the bar. The man with kids at home was a red-haired man -- Ferelden refugee, without a doubt -- and his companions were a large burly blond man and a dark-skinned man with hair in long crinkled braids. "I've gone through all my savings, and this striker's allowance the union hands out wouldn't feed a chicken! I can't stand it any longer. I'm going back to the plant."

 "Whoa, careful, Jansen," the burly man cautioned, glancing from side to side. "Don't talk like that. You know Ginnis promised to break the legs of anyone who goes scab."

 "Ginnis has a heart of solid ice!" Jansen said angrily. "And she's supposed to be better for us than Hubert? The unions are just another gang! They're killing us!"

 Visions of the dead girl's sodden face swam across Hawke's vision, and before he could stop himself he'd let out a loud derisive bark of laughter. "Killing you?" he scoffed. "You sit there with your beer and sandwiches and whine about how you're so badly off! Why don't you go down to the Foundry and talk to some of the corpses there about murder before you sound off your mouth?"

 The three miners turned to him, outraged. The blond burly man stood up. "Hey! This was a private conversation!" he said angrily.

 "Then don't have it in a public bar!" Hawke shot back, turning to face him. A part of him itched for a fight, even while the more sober corner of his mind warned him that Isabela wouldn't thank him for smashing up her bar.

 Tall blond and burly loomed up in Hawke's space. "You looking for trouble, boy?" he growled.

 The dark-skinned man caught his friend's arm, holding him back. "Easy there, Arin," he said in his soft voice. "This is Garrett Hawke -- you don't want to mess with 'im."

 "Am I supposed to be afraid?" Arin sneered.

 "You can try being grateful," his friend shot back. "Hawke helped us out with Hubert two years ago. He's a good guy, a real mensch."

 Hawke remembered that. There'd been a series of accidents at the mill, two machines going off the rails in quick succession. One worker was killed and injured two before they managed to hit the shutoff switch, and the assembly line had halted for the day. The workers refused to turn it back on until the cause of the accidents was found, but the overseer Hubert had demanded that they all return to work immediately or be sacked.

 That was where Hawke had stepped in. He did some looking around and found the cause of the breakdown -- sabotage, the work of a rival industrialist -- and talked Hubert down from his rage. The machine had been repaired and the workers had been able to go back to work safely, or at least in no more danger than usual.

 Arin looked between the two of them, then angrily shrugged off the hands restraining him. "Fine, whatever. Let's find a less _noisy_  place to talk," he said to his friends, and the three miners gathered their coats and moved off. The two miners gave Hawke respectful nods as they went.

 Hawke turned back to find Isabela watching him -- no doubt with the tear gas close to hand. "Unions, cops, politicians, they're all the same," Hawke complained. "They promise the world for your help to climb on top of the pile, and what do you get? More dead people."

 Isabela sighed. "A case getting you down, Hawke?" she said.

 She was right, of course she was right, but Hawke couldn't talk about it. Too many people had already died because of this mess with the Police Commissioner; he couldn't risk dragging anyone else in. "I'm tired of digging through gutters and morgues, Bela," he said at last. "I'm tired of getting my hands bloody for other people."

 "Listen," Isabela told him, resting her arms on the bar and leaning towards him. "You care too much, Hawke. You always have. For your own sake you need to learn when to let go. So some big shot is making a power grab in the city. So what? That's what big men do! They're always scuffling up at the top, offing one another and then getting offed in turn. It keeps them busy. But for us little folk down here at the bottom it doesn't much matter _who's_  in charge. Orlesians, Marchers, nobles, communists -- life goes on all the same. Don't let it get to you. Learn to not care so much."

 Hawke stared down at the bar. The whiskey was close enough to his face that he saw it double; a pair of eyes suddenly seemed to look back at him from the whiskey, a flash of gold in the dark. Watching him so carefully, surprised by what he'd seen -- surprised, or disappointed? He shook his head, and the vision was gone.

  Isabela meant well, he knew. She was only trying to look out for him in her own way. She'd been around the world, lived and worked in a dozen ports before ending up in Kirkwall; she'd survived the horrors of war and the horrors that came after it and still managed to keep a light heart.

 But she was wrong in this. That he knew with a solid certainty. It _did_  matter what happened at the top, even for the little people. It had mattered to Orana. And yes, businessmen and their money had their way and yes, politicians like Threnhold were all a little dirty, but there _was_  such a thing as bad and worse.

 Factions struggled, but they didn't normally leave a trail of bodies stacked two deep in a single week of business. If this was how Meredith was just as deputy commissioner, what would she do if she took over the entire Kirkwall PD? What was it Aveline had said about the police department right now? _A bloodbath._ A week from now, that might not even be metaphorical.

 Someone had to do something. And if he was the only one who could... then he would.

 "Thanks for everything, Isabela," Hawke said and pushed back his stool. He fished a note out of his pocket and set the glass on the corner, then dropped another one next to it.

 Isabela pulled it over, and raised an eyebrow. "Ten sovereigns for a fifty-silver drink, Hawke?" she asked. "I'm not a Chantry you know; I don't need tithes."

 Hawke shook his head. "It's his," he said, jerking his head towards the miner with the hungry kids. "He must have dropped it."

 He walked out into the night.

 

* * *

 

 

**Saturday, 7:15 PM. De Launcet Manor, Hightown**

 

Back in the old days Kirkwall had been separated into Hightown and Lowtown, the quarries of the workers and the mansions of the masters. Noble families lived up on the high plateau in grand houses that flaunted their wealth and beauty while the working classes lived in rooms chipped out of the rock walls in the quarries below.

 That was then. Nowadays the city had grown far too big to be contained within the old gates. The patchwork of street squares and ragged uneven edifices spilled out onto the surrounding landscape like hot tar, spreading inland as far as Soundermount before piling to a halt. The old lowtown had become the new downtown, hexes and buildings demolished to make way for a city grid and newer buildings. Hawke's townhouse was there and it could have been worse. Could have been much worse.

 But the old families, the rich families were still in Hightown. Where else would they be? The great war that had raged across the Free Marches hadn't touched them. They were still there, gardening the wealth that had passed down to them over so many generations that the stain of blood had worn away. Once they'd been smugglers and tyrants and slave-haulers; now they were just rich people in big houses.

 The parties were much bigger now, though.

 Hawke mounted the steps to the de Launcet estate, pushing gamely uphill against a torrent of light and music and roaring laughter that poured down on him. He wore his best Amell colors and flashed his card at the grim-faced bouncer at the top of the stairs, who frowned at the lettering for a long moment before shrugging and nodding him through.

 The place was lit up for the occasion. The main hall had a high ceiling with half a dozen crystal chandeliers descending, all of them blazing bright. Hardly an inch of the ceiling was visible between them and the milky-white globes of crystal and paper that the hosts had hung for the party. Every table, mantel and banister sprouted strings of bulbs to add to the brilliant spill of light, shining garlands of colored tinsel flowing over each window.

 Hawke shed his outer coat in the entry hall. A placard posted conspicuously by the doorway declared the occasion to be a charity event: the de Launcets were raising money for a brilliant but impoverished young musical prodigy, Feynriel Cooper, to gather up the funds to attend at the Académie musicale à Mont-de-glace. Truly an unmatched opportunity for one so lowly of birth to be educated at the finest musical school in Thedas.

 But then again, Hawke couldn't help but think cynically as he collected his first glass of wine and made his way up a crowded marble staircase. He couldn't help but notice that the money raised wasn't going to the boy himself, nor heaven forbid to any of his family or anyone else in the alienage -- it was going straight to the Academie treasury to be repaid in disbursement to the Academie board.  Most of the people who lived in these mansions had relatives in Mont-de-glace who sat on the Board, first or second cousins.

 As ever the charity that rich people liked most to give to was to other rich people.

 He found who he was looking for at the top of the stairs. A balcony ran the length of the second floor, the landing for the arching curving stairwells and a place to linger and talk, watch and be watched. Low open-backed couches lined the walls and Anders was on one of them, a cocktail glass in his hands.

 "Well," Anders said as Hawke mounted the staircase. He raised his glass in a salute accompanied by a wry half-smile. "Fancy meeting you here, Mister Hawke."

 The street clothes had never looked quite right on him. But these... he lounged against the sofa in tight black leggings and fingerless black gloves, a loose ivory poet's shirt with the laces at the top of the breast undone. His long hair was drawn up in a higher ponytail than when Hawke had last seen him, hair streaming back from his temples and forehead to a point at the back of his skull then flowing down his back. The rest of it, freed from confinement, framed his face and jaw and neck leading the eye down to the V of skin exposed by the open laces.

 He had a cocktail in one hand, something thin and pale, and a cigarette in the other. Dark shadows surrounded his eyes -- though some of that might have been makeup -- and a five-o'clock shadow darkened his jaw. He looked tired, rumpled, debauched -- like he'd stayed up all night drinking and smoking and having sex and would probably do the same thing tonight if anyone dared to take him up on it.

 How much of that was real and how much of an act, Hawke couldn't say. But the ice in his drink was almost completely melted -- a sign he had been holding it for longer than he'd been drinking it -- and the long ash on his cigarette didn't look like he'd actually been dragging on it. He set it aside now, stubbing it out in an ashtray and took a sip from his glass. "Come to talk?"

 "Yes." Oh he desperately wanted to talk, but there were too many ears here. Hawke glanced around. "Can we go somewhere more private?"

 "Not far," Anders said, a grimace crossing his face. "I'm working tonight. But I think we can find a quiet corner."

 He got up, that same graceful motion that he'd shown in Hawke's office, much more natural with his current... costume than it had looked in the street clothes. He walked off not looking back, and Hawke trailed after him. "Working? I thought you worked for Threnhold."

 Anders glanced back over his shoulder at Hawke. "He was my patron. Now that he's... unavailable I have to find other venues."

 "And other patrons?" Hawke said.

 Anders shrugged. "Eventually. Tonight I'm just working the crowd."

 "It's a rough way to make a living," Hawke observed as they turned a corner to a quieter hallway. Anders tested the knob of a plain-looking door, glanced inside and then beckoned Hawke in with a jerk of his chin.

 "There are rougher ways, Mister Hawke," Anders said. He flipped a switch and the light came on -- a linen storage closet. "A man like me has to take his opportunities where he finds them in this city."

 "A man like you?" Hawke said. "Ferelden?"

 Anders flashed a smile at him, as quick and thin as the closing slice of doorway. "Mage," he said.

 "Ah," Hawke said, and his breath felt short like he'd missed a step, missed a cue. Of course the mysterious Anders was a mage -- how had he missed it? And of course a mage in this town had precious few options in this town that didn't lead into the _entertainment_ business one way or another. Not unless you wanted to stay behind the Chantry walls, doing their labor for pennies but housed and fed and clean in the constant wash of the Chant coming from the chapel day and night. "Not the cloistered type, I take it?"

 "Those robes they make you wear don't go with my coloring at all," Anders said flippantly. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

 Hawke glanced around, automatically looking for microphone pickups. Anders added, "Don't worry, this room is clean."

 "All right." Hawke cleared his throat. "Police Commissioner Guylian. Like you said, I've been looking closer."

 "And what have you found?" Anders asked. The question was casual, but Hawke sensed an intensity in him, a laser-like attention.

 "Threnhold never hired those mercenaries," Hawke admitted. Anders nodded, a short clipped dip of the chin.

 "No. He did not," Anders agreed. "Can you clear him?"

 Hawke let out a breath, hissing past his teeth. "That's trickier. Any of the witnesses that could have cleared him are dead."

 "Of course," Anders said, sarcasm lining his voice like razor-wire.

 "Normally that would make it just one word against another. Any decent lawyer could get him off, and Threnhold could have any lawyer he wanted," Hawke said. He took another breath, stepped out on the high wire. "But not if the Police Commissioner herself is working against him."

 Anders kept a good poker face, Hawke would give him that. "Why ever would she do that?"

 "I think... no." Hawke decided to lay it all out. "I _know_ that Meredith Stannard was the one who hired those goons and had Guylian killed. And then she killed the mercs so that there would be no trail leading back to her."

 Another little nod. "Do you have proof?"

 "No. Not yet," Hawke had to admit. "She's been killing every witness who could possibly incriminate her. It's going to take time to assemble proof that would stand up in court."

 "You don't have a lot of time left, Mister Hawke," Anders said seriously. "Meredith Stannard will be confirmed as the new commissioner on Wednesday. Once she's in power... no one will be able to stand against her.

 "I can't say I was particularly fond of Richard Guylian, but he was a practical man and he knew his limits. He kept his department clear of the labor strike despite repeated calls from the mill owners to break up the barricades. Stannard won't hesitate. She believes in law and order, except by 'order' what she means is 'obedience.'  Anyone who doesn't fit into her order, anyone who doesn't hurry to obey is a criminal who needs to be punished.

 "And the strikers are just the start of it. Did you know that Stannard has gone on record as saying that the mage population of Kirkwall, I-quote, 'should be thrown back in their cages?'  She's made jokes about burning the alienage to the ground, except that Meredith Stannard doesn't make jokes. And I'm sure I don't have to tell you about her relations with the Qunari of this city.

 "Kirkwall has always been a city one bad news cycle away from disaster. It's sitting on the edge now, waiting for a spark. Stannard would be a whole damn torch. The people of Kirkwall count themselves lucky that the bombs didn't fall here. Well, what's poised to happen in the Kirkwall Police Department will make those bombs look like sparklers."

 Hawke swallowed against a throat gone dry. Visions of flames danced in his mind, bodies slumped unmoving in bloodied streets. The Kirkwallers hadn't seen the war up close. He had. Maker, he needed a drink. "There's still some time. Threnhold's trial date hasn't even been set yet," he said hoarsely.

 Anders snorted. "Do you really think she'll let it come to a trial?" he said. "You've got good instincts, but you aren't thinking ruthless enough. It would be much more convenient for her if Threnhold were to commit 'suicide' in his cell. Not difficult at all for the Police Commissioner to arrange."

 He stepped towards the door, laying his hand on the latch. "Three days, Mister Hawke. That's what you have. And you _don't_ want to leave it until the third day."

 "I'll do what I can," was all Hawke could manage.

 Anders gave him a thin smile, and opened the door. "Well, this has been a lovely chat," he said as he stepped out into the corridor.  Little tugs to his hair, to his sleeves failed to neaten them into any semblance of order -- but then again, Hawke didn't think neatness was the effect he was going for. "I'd love to stay and talk some more, but duty calls me over at the Blue Room."

 Hawke wandered back out into the party in a daze; a few people saw his unsteady progress and smirked, no doubt making their own assumptions about what he'd been up to in dark corners. He ignored them, making a beeline for the bar; his hands didn't stop trembling until he'd knocked back the first swallow.

 Habit kicked in as the party swirled around him and he found himself aware of the surrounding conversations. Sometimes the oldest methods of gathering information were the best. He turned and leaned against the rail, to all appearances enraptured by the artpiece hanging on the wall as he listened.

 " -- work on the pavilion is almost complete, so by this summer -- "

 " -- darling, I don't care if they serve it to the empress in Orlais on a silver platter, I simply cannot abide shellfish -- "

 " -- regimen hasn't showed any results so far, old sport, but keep it up --"

 " -- this whole murder business, absolutely terrible. But what can you expect from the Threnholds? Such terribly pedestrian sorts, the New Money always are."

 Hawke's attention sharpened on this conversation. He recognized Bradley Kenric, a middle-aged man who'd inherited most of his family's fortune by the simple expedient of causing the least scandal, speaking with Marlein Selbrech, a cousin-by-marriage from another Kirkwall house.

 "Who do you think will replace him?"

 "Who knows? Nobody with any sense wants the job. The Harimanns might put forward a candidate, or maybe old Dumar."

 "Dumar? He's got a spine of wet custard. No, mark my words the Vaels will make a bid as soon as they see the opening. They haven't -- oh I say, it's young Amell, isn't it?" Selbrech turned to him as he drifted perhaps too near the orbit of the conversation.

 The trick was not to stop moving. "Good to see you, gentlemen, but I can't stay and chat. My glass is terribly empty, you see," he said, hefting the tumbler as proof.

 That got a smile that was more like a sneer from Kenric, as he thought it would. "Of course. Can't let a tragedy like that stand, can we? The wet bar's over in the corner. Try the gin -- the finest Starkhaven has to offer."

 Starkhaven gin was the joke of the continent, as both of them well knew, often being said to be a better paint remover than a drink. "I appreciate the recommendation," Hawke said, with a straight face as though the very offer hadn't been a subtle insult. He raised his glass. "Your health," he said as he moved off and dived back into the flow of conversations again.

 " -- pin down a husband for her darling little Fifi, but it's hard to imagine who would --"

 " -- had to give it up, the damned arthritis is creeping up on me --"

 " -- Stannard as the new pee-cee in no time, I'm sure. Wasn't she the one who put an end to the dreadful riots down in the alienage last summer?"

 "No, you're thinking of the Assistant Deputy Commissioner from the Gallows -- Alrik, I believe it was."

 "Well, whoever it was, we could use more officers like him. Those rabbits need a firm hand, for certain --"

 " -- my dear, that shade simply just does _not_  flatter --"

 " -- down thirteen percent already this quarter. And now this. Damnation! Those insolent little factory drudges have ruined this year's projections, just ruined them. If we can't break the strike soon, the shareholder's board will vote in a new director."

 That from a portly man with a bald head and bristling muttonchops, with a fine silk cravat decorating the pocket of a suit that might have fit him well five years ago. A younger man, white-gloved hands delicately gripping the stem of a champagne flute, gave him a sympathetic smile.

 "It won't come to that, I'm sure," he said soothingly. "It will all be sorted out before summer. Those strikers won't last the month. What are they going to eat, eh? They'll come crawling back before long."

 "Long enough," the portly man said bitterly. "If they keep insisting on their ridiculous terms then the director can't possibly negotiate with them! Blast and blight the lot of them! This is insubordination, why, this is damn near treason! The lot of them are in league with Tevinter, mark my words, _they'll_  keep the money flowing."

 The younger man _tsked._  "Such a shame when the low-lifers think they can flout the laws of our fair city so openly," he said. "Why doesn't the police do anything about it? It's their job, isn't it?"

 Hawke could think of a lot better things for the Kirkwall P.D. to be doing with its time, over serving as hired muscle for corporate slumlords. Just to start with, it would take the efforts of a small army of cops to try to face down the gangs.

 Gang violence was a constant in Kirkwall, like the smoke, like the wind coming from the sea. The Redwater Teeth, the Undercuts, the Sharps, the Reining Men, even the Invisible Sisters that patrolled near the red-lights district. There were always gangs and new ones kept coming all the time, half the time by accident. Because when a man got tired enough of being pushed around by gangs and he got together with a bunch of his friends from work, and around the pub they would say things like 'It's not right that we can't walk the streets in our own neighborhood. We should do something about it,' and two and a half drinks later they'd be roaming the streets with baseball bats and chains and there you had it, another gang. That was how the Dog Lords got started, Hawke knew for a fact, and the Denerim Avengers. And once you'd started defending the boundaries of a territory it was hard to stop.

 And the police -- well, the only thing that made the police different from the gangs was that they didn't have a territory to defend. The police preferred to do their policing in ways that didn't take them up against thugs in dark alleys. Not when there was so much to keep them busy elsewhere in the city. The alienage, for example, or Little Par Vollen. Always some qunari or elves making trouble somewhere if you looked hard enough. And in recent years, there were the labor unions. The police _loved_ to hate the unions. They were un-patriotic, damn near Vint traitors, communist sympathizers, and most importantly of all most of them weren't practiced at violence.

 But they were getting there fast. Hawke thought. Ever since the strike had begun the refinery workers had been holed up in the old paper mill, sentries posted and nervous men and women patrolling in pairs. The whole place was on edge, vibrating on a trigger to explode into violence, and those inbred idiots out in the gallery would be more than happy to ignite it -- carelessly, casually, with no more thought than they would order a turkey slaughtered for that evening's dinner.

 Fury and despair knotted together in his stomach. Stuck between the urge to put his fist through the pretty crystal chandelier that hung over the archway, and the knowledge that that would do no more than make a mess and cut up his hand beside.

 Hawke downed the rest of his glass in one go. He dropped it on the floor not caring for a furious moment whether it shattered, whether the ladies in the crowd would shriek and flutter at the sound of breaking glass. He turned on his heel and strode off -- not really paying attention to direction, just anywhere that would take him away from the people.

 What was it all for? What was it bloody all for? Hightown and the mayflies who clustered here were just as dirty as everyone else; they weren't better just because they gilded it with gold. And the rest of the city wasn't better either, just because they were honest about it. Man devouring man -- the ones up here did it carelessly, ceaselessly, but the ones down below would do it to each other just as fast, if they only got the chance.

 He stopped at a corner and took a deep breath trying to collect himself, to call himself back from the raging blackness inside of him. This corridor was a little ways off the main hallway, but there were still a few people passing to and fro, or lingering in the shadows. Through one of the open doorways a little way along, the light shone blue.

 The Blue Room, Hawke remembered. He went along to the doorway and stepped through.

 It really was blue. That was Hawke's first impression. It was the kind of room you could only keep around for hosting parties, because it certainly wasn't going to be useful for anything else. The walls were blue, the carpet blue, the lamps glowed through blue-tinted glass, and all of the decorations and furnishings were of a deep royal blue that looked almost black in the weird light. It was scattered with chairs and lounges, small knee-high tables good only for resting drinks on, and one end of the room opened onto an elevated stage. The stage was currently blocked off by a -- what else -- blue curtain.

 The dim light made it hard to see but Hawke found his way to the sideboard, the cheese canapés reflecting a weird ultramarine. Hawke poured himself a drink of something he couldn't identify -- black in the blue light -- and knocked it back. This wasn't really helping his temper, he knew. But damn, he didn't know any other way to stop the shakes and mute the voices.

 A chord sang out through the room and the buzz of chatter almost immediately quieted. The lights flickered and dimmed, lamps dwindling to pinpricks, and white brightness illuminated the stage.

 A handful of notes followed the first chord, rippling like water, and the curtain drew away. The stage was small -- not much bigger than the grand piano that took up the center, a microphone affixed to a wire stand at the edge. Anders sat at the piano, his eyes hooded and distant as he played. He started with an elaborate opening riff, settling down into a pleasant but haunting melody, long fingers dancing over the ivory keys as a cascade of notes welled up from the piano, overflowed, and poured out over the floor.

 He began to [sing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8jzDnsjYv9A). His voice was a husky tenor, not the widest range Hawke had ever heard but rich and firm. It stole around the room like a cloud of smoke, weaving in and out of the piano notes, the wind to the melody's rain.

 

_I've been here before_

_But always hit the floor_

_I've spent a lifetime running_

_And I always get away_

_But with you I'm feeling something_

_That makes me want to stay_

 

And somehow it felt perfectly natural when Anders stood up and left the piano behind to play on and on without him. He swiveled around on the piano bench, dropping his legs precisely over the edge before he stood, microphone in hand to face the audience.

 

_I'm prepared for this_

_I never shoot to miss_

_But I feel like a storm is coming_

_If I'm gonna make it through the day_

_Then there's no more use in running_

_This is something I gotta face_

 

Flickers of light and shade began to swirl around him, bending the blue light into something sweeter, iridescent. Hawke's breath caught as he recognized what was happening: these were wisps, little mindless floating balls of energy that circled around a mage when their magic was active. He remembered them clustering around Bethany, bright white when she was happy, dimming grey when she was sad like clouds coming over the sun. But he'd never seen wisps do _this._

 

_If I risk it all_

_Could you break my fall?_

 

The wisps lit up like northern lights, painting the stage around him. Colors began to crawl up from the floor, sliding over his black-wrapped legs and slipping through the gaps of his shirt like caressing fingers. Watching them, Hawke hardly dared breathe. The music and the colors were so rich he thought he could reach out and touch them, taste them.

 

_How do I live? How do I breathe?_

_When you're not here I'm suffocating_

_I want to feel love, run through my blood_

_Tell me is this where I give it all up?_

_For you I have to risk it all_

_'Cause the writing's on the wall_

 

As Anders' voice reached a passionate descant the stage opened up around him, the wide horizons of a sea dawn seeming to extend endlessly around him. The sea breeze blew, whipping his hair around his face and plastering his laces against his skin; Hawke felt it hit his face and smelled the tang of ozone. A storm was blowing, the piano was the rain and his voice was the wind, and the magic brought it into the room with them.

 

_A million shards of glass_

_That haunt me from my past_

_As the stars begin to gather_

_And the light begins to fade_

_When all hope begins to shatter_

_Know that I won't be afraid_

 

Dawn darkened to twilight, to dusk, to midnight. A hundred, a thousand needlepoints of colored light pierced the darkness, slowly driving it back to reveal Anders' face again.  His eyes were closed and both hands wrapped around the mic; his expression was distant and serene, like he was a thousand miles away from here.

 

[ ](http://s1380.photobucket.com/user/mikkeneko/media/Art%20by%20drawsshits/2anders_singing_zpsuxoiuh1h.png.html)

 

He opened his eyes dark with blown-wide pupils. Although the lights of the stage must have been shining directly in his eyes he still managed to turn his head until he was looking directly at Hawke, picking him effortlessly out of the crowd.

 

_If I risk it all_

_Could you break my fall?_

 

The stage went dark, the piano silent.

 When the lights came back up again the stage was empty.

 Around Hawke the rest of the audience burst into buzzing chatter; some applauding, some sounding scandalized and indignant at the flagrant use of public magic. Hawke felt numb, his hands shaking until he abandoned the glass on the side table. He felt like he'd just used up a whole month's worth of feeling and now all that was left was a faint pins-and-needles in its place.

 It had been beautiful. The sort of beauty he'd never thought to see in Kirkwall, never thought to see anywhere again. The aching, breath-stealing beauty that could pluck you out of your comfortable chair and spin you up into the cosmos, dizzy and dazzled among the dancing galaxies and planets, before dropping you ungracefully back into the mud.

 It had been beautiful. And now it was gone.

 

 

* * *

 

~tbc...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While writing the scene with Anders singing I found myself physically transported back in time to 1998 for a moment there. Ah, the bygone era of songfics. What more appropriate for a bygone age?
> 
> The song Anders sings is "[Writing on the Wall](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8jzDnsjYv9A)" by Sam Smith.


	3. Chapter 3

 

**Monday, 3:03 PM. Editor's Office of The Herald**

 

Bright afternoon poured down on the street, flooding the grimy stone with sunlight. It wasn't particularly welcome to Hawke, who had a bad night before spending most of the day going over his files trying to piece together a plan of action. He'd finally come up with one, or hoped he had. And it brought him here.

 Next to the old bar, the Hanged Man, was a walk-up that took you around back. This was old brickwork, some of the first to be installed after Lowtown was carved out centuries ago and it yellowed and crumbled under his feet as Hawke climbed the steps. One window -- protected with an iron grille, too glazed and dirtied to see out of -- was cracked open to the air out back. Jazzy music played faintly through it, telling Hawke that the occupant was home.

 The door was wood, strapped with long iron bands, large locks and reinforced hinges sunk deep into the stone. Hawke knocked. The brass plate on the front had tarnished long ago and the mat was an unraveling mass of frayed fibers underfoot. The only thing about the whole building that looked new was the metal cabinet off to the side of the door, filled to bursting with copies of the newest edition of newspaper.

  _The Herald._  Hawke picked one up, flicked through the pages while he waited for a response to the knock. Threnhold's upcoming trial was front page news of course. But from the second page onwards it dove into the honest-to-Andraste muckraking that gave the Herald its reputation. _Factions clash over new Governor appointee_  read one headline, and _Silence from the KCPD: Who will be new P.C.?_ read another. _Union leaders threaten reluctant strikers, Steel Board still won't negotiate_  was a third. It was all the city's scandals and lies dug out, blackmail uncovered, bribes exposed... Varric had made a lot of enemies in his time in Kirkwall; lucky for him that he was so good at making friends.

 Still no answer. Hawke knocked again, louder this time -- hard enough to make the door creak and move in its frame. He paused. The deadbolts were solid and sunk into the wall... but they weren't engaged. The door was open.

 He swung the door open and stepped inside. The room beyond was dark after the yellow-grey sunlight outside, lit only by a single dim lamp at the corner of the broad desk that took up the whole back half of the room. In the shadows cast by the lamp moved a shadow -- a silhouette with massive shoulders, thick arms, and the glint of a double-barreled shotgun just level with his head.

 "Hawke!" a friendly voice said from the shadow as the gun moved away. The silhouette reached over to bump the lamp, spreading the pool of light from the desk surface to spill up on him as well. The face that revealed was broad and beaming, wrinkles and crows-feet at the corners of the eyes that suggested he smiled often. His nose was sizeable, and crooked from where it had once been broken and not set right. The story Varric liked to tell was that he'd broken his nose headbutting a Qunari ruffian who'd been paid to smash up his presses and gotten smashed up in return. "Good to see you again. Come in, and shut the door."

 As Hawke moved to close the door behind him Varric returned his shotgun to the hooks above his desk where it normally rested. It was a remarkable piece of work: mahogany stock inlaid with ivory and gold, Dwarvish runes etched in scrolling script up and down the barrels. The barrels gleamed with oil and the stock gleamed too, every inch of it lovingly polished. Varric had moved addresses a dozen times in the years Hawke had known him, but he'd never let himself be parted from his shotgun.

 "You know Hawke, most people consider it bad manners to just barge into people's houses like this," Varric said, his voice rich with amusement.

 "I knocked," Hawke protested. "You didn't answer."

 Varric shrugged. "If anyone wants to send me a message, they can wire a telegram. If it's the sort of message that can't be sent by wire, well --" His hand patted the shotgun's stock again before falling away. "Well, then Bianca's usually got a thing or two to say to them."

 Hawke shook his head. "You're still paranoid, Varric," he said.

 "I'm still alive, Hawke," Varric retorted, smiling. "Come on in, don't haunt my front hallway. Pull up a chair."

 He did. It was a short-legged wooden chair with a curved arch of a back, a curved seat, a worn-out cushion that seemed to settle into the shape of his buttocks from how often he'd sat in it. Varric fished around in the icebox behind his desk, a puff of mist marking the escape of cold air. "Care for a beer?" Varric asked, pulling one out by the neck and offering it across the desk. "It's not bad. Fine dwarven draft, direct from Orzammar."

 "Sure," Hawke said. "Thanks." It wouldn't do much for him. Nothing short of whiskey did these days. But he could still enjoy the ritual of it, cracking open a cold one with the boys, pretending in the warm hazy light of Varric's cozy office that things could be different than they were.

 Varric got comfortable -- as though he had ever stopped being comfortable -- with a beer in one hand and a pad of notepaper in the other. "So what story have you got for me this time, Hawke?"

 Hawke shook his head. "No story."

 "Ah c'mon, you always drag in a story," Varric coaxed him. "You're one of my best sources! The darnedest things happen around you." He grinned. "Hey, remember that crazy mortician we put a stop to, who was trying to Frankenstein himself up a bride?"

 Hawke stared into the mouth of his beer. "I remember," he said. He remembered more than Varric apparently did, including the limbs strewn on the floor, the bloody scalpel, the stink of formaldehyde and feces. The screams. "But I don't have a story for you today."

 Varric, of course, saw the loophole immediately. "You don't have a story, or you don't have it today?"

 "Not today," Hawke allowed.

 "So you do have a story, then." Varric sat back. "New case? This have something to do with the handsome little nightingale that's been flittering around your office the other week?"

 How in the Blight did Varric know about that? "Yes. But I can't drag you into this mess. If it goes bad... you could be in the crossfire."

 "Hey, I spend most of my time in the crossfire," Varric protested. "That's where all the really exciting stuff happens. C'mon Hawke, spill the beans."

 "I can't. Not yet." Hawke dug in his pockets for the scrap of paper he'd prepared. "But I need you to do a favor for me."

 "A favor but no story?" Varric laid a hand on his chest, pouting. "Hard bargain, Hawke."

 Hawke sighed. Varric was one of his best friends in Kirkwall, but sometimes he wanted to play games that Hawke just didn't have the energy for. "Please, Varric."

 "Okay. Okay." Varric capitulated. "What favor?"

 Hawke laid the scrap of paper on the desk, slid it across to Varric. _New Location! Same Gret Prices!_ the paper proclaimed. _Surrey Cleaning & Tailoring & Altertations..._  "I'd like you to print this in your morning edition."

 Varric picked it up, thick fingers handling the paper as though they'd been born to it, eyes moving over the lines of text quickly. "Huh. This is a little out of your usual wheelhouse, isn't it? Since when do you care about dry-cleaning business... Oh..." Hawke saw when the penny dropped, when Varric's brows drew down to a point over his nose. "Hawke, this isn't..."

 "No. It isn't," Hawke said with a sigh.

 Varric slapped the advertisement back on the table. "Orana Surrey went missing five days ago! Do _you_  know something about this?!" he demanded.

 "I know she's not missing anymore," Hawke said.

 The air over the desk went cold despite the heavy sunlight. Hawke sighed. "Look, I just need you to run this near the top of your ads page. No fanfare, nothing out of the ordinary. Just... where people will see it."

 He saw Varric mull it over, his expression growing bleaker as the possibilities played out. Whatever conclusion he reached, though, he gave a nod. "All right," he said grudgingly. "Maker knows you've done enough for me over the years, I owe you a lot. But I want an explanation sooner or later!"

 Hawke thought about the package he'd left at the postal station earlier that day, his own address in the recipient slot and Varric's in the return. If he didn't come back to claim it within the next five days -- if for whatever reason, he _couldn't_ \-- then the post office would deliver it back to Varric instead. Inside wasn't enough evidence to convict anyone. If he'd had that, he wouldn't need to do this. But it was enough to make someone's life very, very uncomfortable in the hands of a man with a printing press and no self-preservation.

 "You'll get one," he said. "Sooner or later."

 

* * *

 

 

**Tuesday, 4:05 AM. Cornice and Broadway**

 

Hawke found four AM down by the corner of Cornice on Broadway, just about a hundred feet back from the main road. A hundred feet was about all it took to get past the facades of the better businesses fronted on the road to the shabby, grayish tenements and the businesses that served them. From here you could see the second floor of the opera house, bright-lit and gaudy with neon; they could have seen him too if they had wanted to look.

 Kirkwall never slept but that didn't mean it didn't doze sometimes. Down at the docks with the arc lights blazing the shipping companies ran through the night and day, never resting, never pausing. But the whole city couldn't keep up the pace. A whole night in Kirkwall was a hell of a thing to sit through and by four AM even the worst of the troublemakers of the night had sought shelter from the cold grey fog that came with the dawn.

 The night shift had gone home weary and the morning workers had not yet arrived. They would come soon, though. Anyone who wanted to find such a person alone... would come sooner.

 Hawke leaned against the wall. His shadow had left a dry patch against the wall in his shape where the morning mist had crept through and not found the wall behind him. Streetlights didn't reach back this far but there was always light of some sort: dim glows from the upstairs apartments, reflected shine from Broadway, all of it caught by the mist and dragged around into a murky blur. The sky overhead gave back its own sullen light, sodium orange mixing now with the bleached gray of oncoming dawn.

 He reached behind him to strike a match off the dry patch of brick, light a cigarette. Cupped in his hands to protect the lit end from the fog as much to hide the small light in his hands. Night was almost over. Dawn was getting onwards. It would have to be soon.

 From down far end of the alley came three figures. If they were hoping for stealth they hadn't dressed for it -- glints reflecting off bright badges, the handles of truncheons, the muffled clatter of body armor over starched cloth. The one in the lead wore a peaked blue cap with a badge that arched prominently at the apex.

 Hawke watched from the alley, motionless. The wisp of smoke from his cigarette blended seamlessly with the morning fog. They clanked right past him, moving along the street, checking numbers and rattling doors as they went.

They stopped in front of the door across from him. No light from the apartment overhead, a grate and a glazed windows obscuring the interior. One of the three stepped forward and rattled the doorknob; the second peered intently into the windows.

 The first one said: "It's locked, ma'am."

 The second one said. "No one inside, ma'am."

 "Of course not," the third and tallest figure said, and the 'you idiot' was clear enough in her tone, in her bearing. "The whole point was to get here before that little rabbit did. Get that door open. We'll wait inside."

 Hawke figured that was long enough. He clicked the recorder to the 'on' switch inside its pocket and then pulled his hand free. Once both of the cops were busy with the door he stepped out of the alley, put the cigarette back in his mouth and took a deep draw, the light on the end flaring as he did so.

 One of the cops turned and saw him and jumped. "Left!" he said urgently, and the other cop and Stannard turned to face him.

 For a moment the tableau hung, lockpicks still dangling from the hand of the second cop. Both of them had guilty expressions on their faces but Stannard's face was like stone, watching him with gimlet eyes.

 "You're Garrett Hawke," she said at last. "The Amell brat."

 "That's me," Hawke agreed, taking the cigarette from his mouth. "Funny meeting you here, Stannard."

"That's Commissioner to you, Hawke," Meredith hissed.

 "Is it?" Hawke said, keeping his tone nonchalant. "Funny, Guylian's ashes aren't even cold yet and you're already promoting yourself."

 "There is no one else," Meredith said coldly. "The office must be maintained for the security of the city."

 "Hm," Hawke said, and took another puff of the cigarette. "And what brings you down here in the dead of night?"

 She drew herself up, eyes blazing. "I have every right to be here!" she said.

 "Right, yes," Hawke said. "But reason?"

 "I don't need to tell you my reasons," Meredith spat. "I don't answer to you."

 "Fair enough," Hawke allowed. "So how about I tell you, instead. You see, this property has been empty for months. Then yesterday it gets rented out in the name of someone called Surrey."

 He was watching Meredith closely, so he saw her start. "Friend of yours?" he asked.

 "I've never heard her name in my life," she denied, and Hawke almost rolled his eyes. Shouldn't a senior policemen be better at lying if only by experience on the other end?

 "Really?" Hawke drawled. "Then how'd you even know she was a _her?"_

 Silence. The other two cops exchanged a troubled look, Hawke noticed. "Anyway... Orana Surrey dropped off the radar a week ago. Nobody's seen from her or heard from her since." Hawke paused deliberately. "Until, two days ago, a young woman by the name of Orana Surrey put her name on a deposit on this storefront. Getting back into the cleaning business one supposes, getting a new start in her trade."

 "What's your point?" Meredith demanded.

 "My point is that Surrey is dead, Stannard," Hawke said. "Went down in the river with bricks in her pockets. There's no way she could be opening up a new storefront on Cornice and Broadway. But nobody should know that... unless they already _knew_ she was dead."

 Meredith's expression was getting steadily more stony. The other constables shifted uneasily and one of them reached to touch the butt of their gun. Which way would they jump? Hawke wondered.

 He kept talking. "But of course you didn't know for sure, did you? You didn't see to it personally, so there's always that little nagging thread of doubt. That's why you came down here this morning, to make sure. And if Surrey turned up alive after all you were ready to finish the job right here and now."

 "You don't know what you're talking about," Meredith said icily.

 "Oh, I think I do," Hawke said. "Once a week, three shirt and two trousers, extra starch on the jacket. She did for you for the last time one week ago, on the night of Police Commissioner Guylian's murder. And what she saw that night was enough for you to do for her, too. Was it blood on your shirt cuffs that he saw, Stannard? Blood that's soaked into the seam is a devil to get out --"

 Meredith's retort was nearly a scream. " _It's commissioner to you, Hawke!"_

 "So," Hawke said, working to keep his voice steady despite the shaking. "You killed Guylian and made sure the mercenaries didn't survive to be captured. You killed the agent you hired them through, you killed anyone who could have accounted for your movements that day, and you even killed the poor little cleaning girl who saw too much. And you framed Threnhold for it. It's been a busy week for you, hasn't it, Mere?"

 "You have no idea what you're talking about!" Meredith raged. "This city is corrupt, it's filthy, soaked down into its bones with treachery and vice. Guylian was just like all the rest of them, bribes and blackmail, wallowing with the pigs until he stank of their filth. And that cretin Threnhold -- the worst of the lot! A Tevinter traitor, communist sympathizer, he would have seen this whole city sold out to Tevinter. I had to stop him! I had to put a stop to it, because no one else had the guts! Squeamish, soft-bellied cowards! I am the only one in this city who sees it, I am the only one with the strength to cleanse Kirkwall! The city needs me!"

 Hawke breathed out, carefully, and lowered his hands, careful not to draw attention to his pockets. "Why Orana?" he said. "Why the girl?"

 "She saw too much!" Meredith said. "She could have implicated me. I couldn't let that happen. One slip, just one omission would be too much. What if she had run to any of the gangs to tell them what she saw, and give them material to blackmail me? No! I will not live with the sword of Damocles hanging over my head. That's why the girl had to die. And that's why you must die!"

 He'd been watching her hands throughout the speech. They went for her weapons before she'd even done shouting and Hawke was already on the move, diving for the cover of the alley's dumpster. Big, solid metal, it should block anything up to an armor-piercing round.

 Gunfire stuttered behind him -- three, four shots, too quick to have come from a single weapon. Looked like her two cronies had decided to stay loyal, _blight_  it. He'd been hoping the revelation of Meredith's homicidal fury would turn them against her, but she chose her lackeys well.

 They'd try to flank him, Hawke knew. Three of them. One of him. The dumpster in front of him offered some cover, but if they could move around into a crossfire there was no way he'd be able to hold all of them off.

 "Nobody else can clean up this city! Nobody has the guts!" Meredith shouted behind him. "They all complain about the corruption, but which of them has the strength to do something about it? Me! I'll raze this city down to the bedrock if I have to!

 Taking a risk, Hawke moved cautiously around the corner of the dumpster, keeping as flat to the side of it as he could. Unpleasant softness gave under his feet, but at least his footsteps made no sound. The darkness was fading as dawn drew in, but it was still too hazy to cast shadows. If any of them looked too closely at the side of the dumpster they were sure to see him, but if they didn't --

 The second cop ran into Hawke's line of sight, making for the fire escape which led up the side of the building. From there he'd have a perfect vantage to shoot Hawke in the back.

 Hawke opened fire.

 Two shots, three and the cop's body jerked as two bullets thudded into his torso, the last one spraying open his neck. He folded over and there was no time now for Hawke to be sick at the waste of life.

 The cop hit the floor with the sound of a mallet hitting meat and Hawke heard Meredith screaming in rage as he dove for the corner of the alley. Bullets spanged off the wall behind him, sending shrapnel flying as the old bricks chipped and withered under fire. Gunsmoke hung in the air, sharp and rank.

 Footsteps approached. Hawke groped in the darkness, hands trembling as he did. His left hand closed on something cold, heavy, points and edges dug into his palm but it moved when he pulled at it --

 The second cop rounded the corner with a yell. _Stupid,_  Hawke thought briefly, and then there was no time for thought. They both fired at once -- two shots -- three -- and the breath hissed out of Hawke as pain exploded in his arm and bloomed in his leg. He missed all three shots.

 But then the cop's gun clicked empty, and as he fumbled -- to reload, to retreat, to switch weapons -- Hawke's left arm came around with the jagged piece of rebar and belted him across the head.

 The metal bar skipped off his shoulder and spun him around, mouth open in a foolish O as though to protest the unfairness or call for help. He sprawled on the ground -- no blood, but his head was a strange dented shape that made Hawke's stomach queasy to look at it.

 He staggered a step forward. Another gunshot rang out and Hawke's vision whitened then cleared as the cloud of dust settled. The bullet had knocked out a segment of wall and left a gouge at eye level. Through it he saw Meredith stalking forward, gait like a wolf on the hunt.

 "I counted six bullets, Mister Hawke," Meredith called out as she approached, the _clack_ as the new magazine snapped into place rebounding through the alley. "You're bleeding, and you've got nowhere left to run. I'll find you and put an end to your meddling..."

 "You won't get away with this!" Hawke called out, as he searched the shadows of the alley for another route. "Too many people know what I know, they'll come for you!"

 Meredith laughed. "Then I'll just have to come for them first!" she mocked him, her voice as grating as old bricks and mortar crumbling into nothingness. "When I'm through with you there'll be nobody left to tell tales. No witnesses. I don't suppose you'd be kind enough to tell me who knows, so that I can pay them a visit? Never mind, I'll just have to get to every one of your associates. Anyone who ever knew you…"

 Hawke managed to slot the new magazine home but his hand was sluggish, blood running down his wrist and dripping off the trigger. There was no way he'd beat her on a draw and her gun had the faster rate of fire. Not unless...

 He dropped and rolled and by some blessing of luck managed not to make a sound as he cleared the corner. Now he had a straight view through the alley back up to Broadway, the blazing facade of the Opera House filling his vision as Meredith came around the corner swinging.

 Too high. She'd aimed where his head should have been but he was crouched down below. His own shot hit her center-of-mass -- she grunted, swayed, but stayed standing. There was a _ting_  as the bullet slid to the alley floor and bounced.

He'd forgotten she was wearing body armor.

For a frozen moment of time they stared at each other, movement slowing to a crawl. He looked up and saw her silhouetted against the light, her head haloed by that blazing golden glow. In that frozen instant of time, he knew he wasn't going to get a chance to reload.  She raised her truncheon, and the golden light gleamed off the razor edge embedded in the club. In that moment, he realized this was how Jaravis Tintop had died.

"Well, Hawke," she breathed out, a scream of metal just in that whisper. "Time's up."

And then her head exploded.

Something hot and heavy flew past Hawke's cheek and buried itself in the alley floor. The body in front of him, its head blown to splinters, convulsed once before collapsing at his feet. Hawke kept staring upwards back along the path the bullet had taken -- past the sharp edge of the corner, through the alleyway, up, up past the first story, across the street to where the lights of the opera house blazed --

 It was too far away to be sure, no more than a blurred smudge from here. But he saw the glint of light on glass as the scope folded away, and the dark hooded figure stepped back from the iron-wrought balcony and disappeared into a doorway.

 The neon lights blinked, off and on.

 Hawke got to his feet. Legs shaking, hands numb, he felt hot blood running down from where the bullet had punched through the meat of his arm. He stared around the alleyway, grey and brown and sepia in the last of the streetlights and in the growing dawn.

 "Son of a bitch," he said.

 That seemed inadequate, but nothing else he could say would do it justice. His legs bowed under him and he staggered the few feet to lean against the bullet-riddled wall. Hand slick with blood, he fumbled into his pocket and drew out a cigarette with shaking hands.

 The taste of smoke calmed him, helped his breathing steady. Hawke became aware that he was still bleeding, the hot heaviness of a bullet lodged in his calf and a graze that cut through his upper arm. It would take a doctor to fish that out and sew up both wounds.

 He thought of running. But too many people -- starting with Varric -- knew he'd be here tonight. Besides, the flashing red-and-blue of lights were beginning to light up the fog, the distant wailing of sirens drawing nearer. No way he could move fast enough on foot to get clear of the incoming police cordon, not now.

 But he didn't need to run. He had all the proof he needed, right in his pocket. He drew up an overturned trash can and waited. And lit up another cigarette.

 

* * *

 

 

**Thursday, 9:15 AM. Office of Garrett Hawke, P.I.**

 

Hawke sat at his desk, empty glass in one hand and newspaper spread out on the desk. POLICE KILLING SPREE STOPPED was the block headline and under it in smaller print, 'New evidence implicates D.C. Meredith Stannard in murder of P.C. Guylian in taped confession, details on page 4.'

 He'd read page 4. It didn't talk much about Orana Surrey, but then he hadn't expected it to.

 There was always a bit of a letdown after a case. He ought to feel triumphant, vindicated, that he'd managed to stop Meredith before she could take the reins of power. But the bullet wounds stung like a bitch, his wrenched knee hurt like hell, and he mostly just felt tired.

 But his glass was empty and that was worth getting up for. He hobbled over to the cabinet where he kept the whiskey, poured himself another glass; after a little consideration he brought the bottle back with him so he wouldn't have to get up again.

 Meredith had been wrong. You couldn't clean up a city like Kirkwall and it wasn't a matter of strength or guts. She was wrong in thinking there could be such a thing as a clean Kirkwall, some imaginary platonic version of Kirkwall where everybody was good and honest and law-abiding all the time. The partiers up at Hightown imagined that was the city's past, and crusaders like Meredith imagined that was the city's future. But it was neither. There was no hidden treasure no matter how deep into the muck you dug -- and digging in the dirt would only make you dirtier.

 The sooner you accepted that, the sooner you could find... well, not happiness. Not in Kirkwall. But peace of a kind.

 When he turned around Anders was sitting on the edge of his desk. He hadn't heard a thing.

 Somehow he wasn't surprised.

 This time around Anders was dressed like the night; black pants, black jacket with matte fasteners, black gloves. It struck Hawke that for all the dark colors and harsh fabrics Anders looked right in these clothes. Looked natural. The working street clothes he'd worn the last time in this office had looked stiff and awkward; the courtesan's clothes he'd worn to the party had looked like a costume. This, this looked right.

 And did it also look like the dark figure he'd seen on the opera balcony two nights ago? The distance had been too great, the light had been too low. He couldn't be sure.

 But he had his suspicions. He made his way back to his desk and dropped into the chair, setting the glass and the bottle aside. "I wasn't sure I'd be seeing you again," he said.

 Instead of answering Anders reached into his jacket and took out a yellow envelope, setting it down on the desk. "Payment," he explained, lifting his hands from it. "For cracking the case. Congratulations, by the way."

 Hawke looked down at the envelope. A part of him wanted to tear it up, throw it out the window. But that would be a stupid, grand-standing gesture. He'd worked damn hard for this -- besides, the lights didn't keep themselves on.

 "Seems like I didn't find out anything you didn't know," he said, and it came out more bitterly than he intended.

 Anders shrugged. "Maybe not. But the world found out, and they heard it from Garrett Hawke, accomplished private investigator and respected member of Kirkwall society. And taking Meredith down in the middle of all her goons? Not many people could have done that."

 He gave Hawke a look, and there was a warmth on his face, an admiration in his eyes, glancing up at him through those golden eyelashes. Hawke felt the pull of it and pulled back, resisting, for the moment. He reached for the glass and winced as his arm twinged.

 Anders followed the wince, and the movement. "I could do something about that if you like," he said, gesturing towards the bandage on Hawke's upper arm.

 It was tempting. It was real tempting. Hawke hadn't felt healing magic since Bethany died. But -- "No thanks," he said, kicking himself almost as soon as he said it. But he just didn't trust Anders that much right now. "It'll heal soon enough. As long as I have some peace and quiet to rest it."

 Disappointment flashed in Anders' eyes, but he eased back with a nod. "Hopefully things should settle down with Meredith gone," he said.

 Hawke accepted the turn to politics gratefully. "So," he said, flipping over the newspaper sheet with one hand. "Threnhold's off the hook."

 "Yes, but he won't be resuming his post. Too much scandal, too much damage to his reputation. And to the rest of him," Anders said, anger flashing in his eyes and biting in his voice. "A week in Stannard's prison was no luxury spa."

 Hawke bet not. He wondered if Anders had made the same offer to Threnhold that he had to Hawke. And if Threnhold had accepted. "He'll be stepping down?"

 Anders nodded. "It's looking like Marlowe Dumar will be the next Governor. He has the support of the people at least; he's sympathetic to the labor unions."

 "And who will be the next commissioner, with Guylian gone and Stannard dead?"

 "Hard to say." Anders pursed his lips. "I'm hoping they promote Thrask to the post. He's known for being a bit slow but he gets the job done and he doesn't have a temper. His daughter is a mage, you know."

 Hawke was more interested in a different mage right now. "And what about you?" he said. "Will you be staying with Threnhold?"

 "No. That debt is paid," Anders said curtly. He added, "And he doesn't need me anymore."

 The answer surprised Hawke. "Debt?"

 "It's a long story." A rueful smile quirked Anders' lips. "Maybe I'll tell you someday."

 Silence fell between them for a moment, each roiled in their own thoughts. Hawke tried to think of how to ask, how to breach the subject. At last he said, "You seemed very sure that Threnhold wasn't the one who ordered Guylian killed."

 "I was very sure," Anders replied. "There was no reason for him to do so. And if he had, he wouldn't have sent a squad of thugs in broad daylight when there were better ways."

 A chill settled in Hawke's stomach, at the answer-that-was-not-an-answer. "I thought you said Threnhold was your sugar daddy."

 "No, I said he was my patron," Anders said. At the look on Hawke's face, he added, "I never lied to you, you know. With a face like mine, people make assumptions. Who am I to disillusion them?"

 "I didn't kill Stannard," Hawke said. "Someone else did. Someone who had access to all the back doors and stairwells of the opera house. Someone who doesn't shoot to miss."

 Anders didn't turn a hair. "I guess we'll never know," he said with admirable coolness. "One way or another, it was the hand of justice that ended the threat of Meredith Stannard."

  _Justice._   Hawke didn't know what to think of that, so he decided not to think at all. He took another drink.

 Anders stood up. His jacket made a whisper of sound as the cloth moved.

 "I'm leaving town tonight," he said.

 It wasn't a surprise. Nor was the heavy, empty feeling that weighed on Hawke's stomach when he said it. "Where are you going?" he asked.

 "Tantervale, at least for now. Someplace far away from Kirkwall, someplace that I can start a new life." Anders hesitated, hovering above the desk. "Come with me."

  _That_  was a surprise. "What?"

 "You're a good man, Garrett Hawke," Anders said. "You care about people, even strangers. And you've got the skills and the courage to do something about it. Kirkwall doesn't deserve you. Come with me."

 He considered it. He really did, and that was the most surprising thing at all. Leaving it all behind, the city that had killed his mother, swallowed his sister, swallowed his future. Striking out someplace new, somewhere that didn't have his family's blood on the streets.

 But... "No," he said. "No, I can't. Kirkwall might not deserve me, but it needs me. I belong to this city and it belongs to me. I can't leave it behind."

 Disappointment pulled at Anders' mouth, reflected in his eyes. "Well," he said. He took out another piece of paper, folded over, and slid it over the desk on top of the envelope. "Here's how to find me, in case you change your mind."

 He stayed leaning over the desk, hand on the paper. Hanging within reach for just a moment. Just like before...

 This time Hawke took the chance. Leaned up and pressed his lips against Anders' for a long moment. Anders' hand closed around his shoulder, his lips parted. He tasted clean, bright, like the wind and the rain and the tang of a lightning flash. His skin brushed against Hawke's beard, and Hawke could feel the friction.

 Then Anders pulled away.

 "See you around, Garrett," Anders said, and he walked out of Hawke's life.

 Hawke sat back in his chair, feeling suddenly tired. His arm and leg didn't hurt any more.

 His glass was empty and he didn't remember emptying it. Absently he filled it up again… held it in his left hand, for a moment hesitating. He picked up the paper in his right hand, flipped it open, and stared at it.

 Kirkwall. They called it the Chained City. Hawke knew it damn well. And sometimes the chains came out of a bottle, and sometimes they were in your own head.

 He downed the drink and put the paper away for another time.

 

* * *

 

 

**END.**

 

 

[ ](http://s1380.photobucket.com/user/mikkeneko/media/Art%20by%20drawsshits/3noir_handers_cover_zpsg26o2mmz.png.html)


End file.
